Class
by PaleMagnolia
Summary: "Good evening, Mr. Holmes" said a voice, a very polite one, in the dark room. Mycroft reacted with class - a lot of it, admittedly. The most appropriate response to such an event - if Mycroft had been a normal person - would typically include shouting, jumping back and, probably, a variable dose of terror. But, being a Holmes, Mycroft was not precisely considered a normal person.


_First of all, thanks A LOT to my wonderful beta, the powerful, the pleasurable, the __indestructible Robynne, a.k.a. Saimejoxxers, aka Roberre._

___So, uhm, well, thank you. You're great._

_..._

_And she'll tease you_  
_She'll unease you_  
_All the better just to please you_  
_She's precocious_  
_And she knows just what it_  
_Takes to make a pro blush_  
_All the boys think she's a spy,_  
_She's got Bette Davis eyes_

_Kim Carnes, Bette Davis Eyes_

_..._

Mycroft Holmes strode into his beautiful Queen Anne house in Hammersmith, greeted by the familiar smell of leather, paper, wood oil, then closed the security door behind him with a muffled thump.

He put the keys on the two manual harmonium - a massive German instrument of proven solidity and demonstrated uselessness - that stood next to the door.

Mycroft had a bizarre penchant for those sort of objects: huge, old, preferably lacking any practical use in the modern world. Further proof of this attitude was demonstrated in his ever-present old, black, unwieldy umbrella, so anachronistic and impractical, black and tapered like a sleeping bat: it was his trademark, in the sun and the rain, when he walked down the crowded City or the empty, light-flooded corridors in Westminster.

Mycroft Holmes: prim, formal, his gestures firm and confident; a man who knew the rules of the game ... who knew the rules _of all games._

He was a bizarre vision, yes: a gentleman of another era - his silhouette recognizable even from a distance - his massive figure, always well-dressed (tailored suits, Gieves and Hawkes ties, a watch chain hanging from his pocket) with the same self-awareness as a bygone nobleman.

Imagining him walking in a foggy Victorian London, with a carefully brushed top hat on his head and a silver snuff-box in his pocket, did not require a vast stretch of imagination.

Someone - a senior member of the House of Parliament, likely old enough to have witnessed the decline of the Victorian age in person – once compared Mycroft Holmes to a Zeppelin: massive, tasteful, his movement slow and dignified... but extremely dangerous. Like one of those old, elegant air ships (full of helium and dignified ladies in kid gloves and hats) that sometimes, without any warning, would bloom in the air like a red fire flower.

Mycroft Holmes (with his indolence and his smart suits, his big hands and slow talking) could turn his immediate vicinity into a burning hell.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes" said a voice, a very polite one, in the dark room.

Mycroft reacted with class - _a lot_ of it, admittedly. The most appropriate response to such an event - if Mycroft had been a normal person - would typically include shouting, jumping back and, probably, a variable dose of terror.

But, being a Holmes, Mycroft was not precisely considered a "normal person".

It was instead remarkable how easily he accepted the news that someone had just entered his house... a house protected by an armoured door, whose combination lock consisted of a sixteen-digit-long alphanumeric code, which was randomly generated by a specific application in Mycroft's smartphone at seven o'clock every morning.

The man who occasionally _was_ the British government raised an eyebrow and, with deliberate sluggishness, in a very careless way after all, a woman sitting in his pitch-dark study was hardly a reason to rush) he flicked the switch on the wall using the tip of his umbrella.

Mycroft Holmes was the incontrovertible proof - if ever there was one - that the Etonian male still cultivated the ancient art of self-control.

The light turned on with a slight flicker, and for a moment the only sound in the room was the electric hissing of the light bulb. The light flooded the senior Holmes' study: a mixture of sobriety and eccentricity: dark wood furniture, heavy curtains; a brass astrolabe, a nineteenth-century writing set, fountain pens in an ebony pen holder, a dark lantern on a shelf.

"Oh," Mycroft whispered, slowly, while an ambiguous expression appeared on his face - both thoughtful and pleased, the look of a riddle solver up against a very well-structured puzzle. The guest made an imperceptible nod of her head as a greeting.

"Miss Adler." He tilted his head politely.

"Mycroft," said Irene Adler, with the same courtesy. She smiled slightly, but in her eyes harboured a glimmer of amusement. She was sitting on the Mycroft's favourite armchair - a huge, Victorian red leather object located in front of the fireplace.

Well, rather than _seated_, she was _curled up_ like a cat, her legs folded under her body. She stretched herself out (just like a cat), and crossed her legs with a fluid, measured motion. She wore black leather gloves closed by a couple of buttons on the wrists, and a large, soft white mink fur cape - and it looked pretty darn expensive.

The woman's legs were wrapped in silk stockings with the back seam (a slight nod to the1940s), and a pair of two-toned, black and white Christian Louboutin shoes with stunningly high stiletto heels. As she moved, the light glinted on her diamond earrings - three carats each, at least, with a beautiful vintage frame.

"You're looking extraordinarily well, Miss Adler. Especially considering that the last time I saw you, you were lying on the autopsy table of a morgue in Karachi."

"Oh, the morgue had the most lovely view on the river Malir, don't you think? But it was definitely not the most comfortable table I've had the opportunity to lie on. Or the cleanest."

"I must therefore presume that the news of your death was - well, you know ...?" Mycroft waved a hand in the air, as if he was looking for an appropriate word.

Irene raised both eyebrows and pressed her lips in a lovely little pout.

"... _Premature._"

Irene shrugged, dismissively. "You must definitely presume that."

Mycroft nodded, slowly, and rocked on the sole of his shoes. He seemed to consider various hypotheses – and discarding one after the other.

Eventually, he raised his head and looked at her sideways. "But how did you – how the _hell_...?"

Irene looked at him, a mischievous look in her eyes. The shadow of a smile twisted the corners of her mouth.

"Think, Mycroft. _Think_. " Her eyes sparkled.

"Ah." Mycroft took a deep sight, as if he had the confirmation of an old suspicion. "I should really keep a closer eye on my younger brother."

"You really should."

He nodded again, thoughtfully. He turned to the large desk and began to casually stack several documents, perfectly matching the corners of the sheets as if they were the matter of primary importance. For a moment the room was silent - the man standing on his feet, his manicured hands busy with his papers, and the woman elegantly sitting on the armchair. It looked like an old-fashioned photograph: both of them elegant, timeless.

Irene took off her gloves, slowly, a finger at a time. Then Mycroft broke the silence, in an absent-minded voice.

"Ah, Miss Adler: _en passant_, may I ask how you came in? If the question's not too tactless."

She arched a perfect eyebrow in mock surprise, and gave him a mischievous smile.

"I came down the chimney, of course,." she said.

"... the _chimney_?"

" Just call me Santa, darling. If you like that kind of thing. _Ho, ho, ho_."

Irene gave a short laugh and slid the fur stole from her shoulders, revealing a tight black dress: very sober, to tell the truth, knee-length with a boat neckline.

It looked almost monastic, but Mycroft recognized a Tom Ford model from the latest collection, a dress that cost around twelve hundred pounds.

Sober, yes, but not cheap.

Mycroft never missed details (he missed _nothing_, actually) - which was the main reason why the British government needed him so desperately.

"And did you bring any presents?"

"Only if you've been a good boy. Have you been a good boy, Mycroft? " Irene asked, and then she laughed again, a throaty laughter. "If you haven't, perhaps some… correction… would be in order."

Mycroft stared at her.

Irene looked back at him, then opened her eyes wide for a moment, and put her hand on her mouth. "Oh, would you like me to try and..." Her eyes shone. "... _punish _you? Some of your colleagues seem to like it."

Mycroft tilted his head, in a pensive way. "No," he replied, after a short pause. He was as imperturbable and courteous as if he was talking to a waiter in a restaurant. "But thank you for the offer. If I change my mind, you'll be the first in line, I promise."

"Oh, well. As you wish. But I know some people at the Ministry..." Their eyes met. Irene smiled. "Well, let's say I know what they _like_."

Mycroft took his peculiar attitude (in the same way one always envisioned Napoleon with his hand in his coat, all those who knew Mycroft Holmes could not help but represent it in this way): he planted the umbrella on the floor and used it as it was a walking stick; leaned on it, crossing the right leg on the other, his ankle twisted in a relaxed, lazy "L", and put a hand in his pocket.: The watch chain that draped across his waistcoat glittered faintly in the lamplight.

He looked at the woman, a neutral expression on his face, and then, suddenly, he dropped his unblinking mask and sighed heavily.

He closed his eyes; all of a sudden, he looked tired, terribly tired.

"What are you looking for, Irene? What do you want?" he asked, and there was a vein of weariness in his voice, too.

"Oh. Very straightforward." The woman raised an eyebrow. "But the question may as well be - what do _you_ want, Mycroft?"

Irene Adler was fully capable of appearing both aristocratic and provocative at the same time, and she showed it even in the simplest of gestures.

In an elegant flutter of long legs and black _crepe de chine_ she stood up in front of him and looked into his eyes, lifting her chin up.

Despite the dramatically high heels, Mycroft was a whole head taller than her, and next to him the beautiful dominatrix, with her dark hair and red lips, looked as small and fragile as a wren. She reached out and grabbed his tie, brushing it with the tip of her fingers.

Her nails were almond-shaped, varnished in a wine-red colour. She wore a vintage ring with rose-cut diamonds - very nice, _very_ expensive.

"What do _you_ want?" She asked again, her voice low, husky. Her lips curved in a half smile, her mouth was slightly open, Mycroft become acutely aware of how terribly desirable she was.

He looked down at her. She was undoubtedly one of the most attractive women he had ever met, and - as odd as it might seem, considering who she was – one of the finest. He knew members of the royal family who didn't have half of her class.

Mycroft was vaguely surprised that, despite the fact that she was wearing at least nine carats of diamonds and clothes for about five thousand pounds, the first term that came to mind while looking at her was "sober".

Paired with "elegant", of course.

He smiled at her, mockingly, but his eyes were serious. "I have everything I need, Irene. But thank you for asking., I appreciate it. I really do."

She bit her lip. "Don't you ever feel the need to be with someone? The need of a... partner?"

Mycroft smiled again, and this time he looked almost sincere. "Oh, but, my dear Ms. Adler - I've already got one."

Irene was puzzled. "Really?" she said, a little too abruptly.

Mycroft slowly abandoned his relaxed position. He turned to look at the umbrella he was holding, tight, as it had been a crutch. Then, in a fluid motion, he threw it up in the air and caught it again in his hand, like a magician with his wand.

"Oh, yes," he said, his eyes now sparkled with mischief. "I do."

Irene stood motionless for a moment, frozen in her position, her fingers still on his tie. Then she realized, and she started to laugh. She laughed until she lost her balance and had to lean against Mycroft's shoulder. She laughed until tears appeared in the corners of the eyes.

"Oh God," she said, breathless, shaking her head. "Oh, God. And I even thought I could come here and seduce you." He wiped a tear with her fingers, stopped laughing and raised an eyebrow. "Usually I'm quite good at it, you know."

"Oh, I'm sure of that."

"But I must admit that my personal advisor was right about you, Mycroft." She smiled. "You really are _the ice man_."

"Yes, so I have been told. But, Irene ... why were you going to seduce me?"

Irene made a few steps toward the leather chair. "Oh, well, I wanted to ask you something - a small favour ... a little thing, really. But under present circumstances, I suppose bargaining has become something of a moot point, hasn't it?" She made a comical gesture of resignation, a small shrug. "As I don't seem to have anything you want."

She picked the gloves up from the armchair where she left them and her fur cape, then returned to Mycroft to have them buttoned up. She looked like the wife of a wealthy businessman, asking him to fasten her necklace clasp behind her neck before a dinner party.

Mycroft buttoned them with impeccable courtesy, as polite as he would have been if Irene had been a peeress.

As if she had not the habit of manipulating (in more than one sense) people's perversions for her own purposes.

As if she had not just admitted she was trying to seduce him for her own advantage.

"Thank you, you are very dear." Irene returned to the armchair, took the fur stole and wrapped it around her neck. She was about to leave, and her heels clicked gracefully towards the door on the wooden floor. As she passed by Mycroft, she stopped for a moment and touched his arm. "Goodbye," she said, without looking at him, then she reached the door, and opened it.

"Ah, Mycroft?" she said, standing in the doorframe—neither completely in the room, nor completely out.. "Give Sherlock my best regard, when you see him."

"I will."

Mycroft felt the familiar thud of the door closing, the sound of a car door slamming and, a moment later, a squeal of tires on the asphalt.

Mycroft exhaled, slowly. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He thought long and hard about what to write, then put his fingers on the keys

_Adler is back. Don't tell S._

_Be careful._

_M._

He sent it to Watson, then put the phone on the desk and sat down on his armchair, waiting. Irene's perfume was still in the air.

The reply came in a few minutes. Mycroft could almost hear John's voice - acute, alarmed - as he read the message.

_Irene? But you told me she was dead. _

_What happened?_

_J._

Mycroft sighed, half tired and half amused. He began to type the answer.

_She came to make some kind of a dead with me, but what she offered did not -_

He stopped and looked around, meditating, then he erased it all and rewrote the text.

_Don't worry. Just keep your eyes open._

_M._

He leaned back on his chair, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He rested there, his eyes closed, thinking, for a very long time.

Then, suddenly, he pulled himself together. He reached for his umbrella – his lifetime faithful companion – he grabbed him and used him as a crutch, to stand up.

"Ah, my old friend," he said, in a low voice. "It has been a long day."

He walked to the kitchen, swinging the umbrella back and forth.

"A long, long, _long_ day. Let's make ourselves a cup of tea, shall we? "


End file.
